


A Lonely World

by ryoku



Category: Animamundi Dark Alchemist
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoku/pseuds/ryoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael might have felt fortunate for the necromancy, if it were not such a foul, ungodly abomination. It's unholy power had kept Mikhail from true death, and preserved what meager strength he still had; but the powers of the necromancer, and that of the archangel, could not coexist. It was an inevitable conclusion, that the runes carved on Mikhail's skin with dirty, blood stained nails, would not last for much longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lonely World

As Lucifer's sword sank deep into his flesh, Michael did the only two things he could. He screamed, and he struck. He could see the blade ripping through Lucifer's pale flesh, as his own vision started to wane. Michael, perhaps, could have kept fighting for eternity, but Mikhail, his human vessel, was dying. As an angel, he was not accustomed to human perceptions of pain, but the shockwaves ripped through him, like tides threatening to drag him under. 

His time was woefully limited by a fragile human body, that had already suffered torture and death. Michael might have felt fortunate for the necromancy, if it were not such a foul, ungodly abomination. It's unholy power had kept Mikhail from true death, and preserved what meager strength he still had; but the powers of the necromancer, and that of the archangel, could not coexist. It was an inevitable conclusion, that the runes carved on Mikhail's skin with dirty, blood stained nails, would not last for much longer. Mikhail was dying, for the second time, and no sorcerers unholy magic would bring him back. Yet still, their work remained unfinished. 

Michael drew his blade out of Lucifer's side, and with one great flap of his white wings, pulled back. "That it has come to this." He wondered how his voice sounded, if it was still the impartial tone of Michael, or if Mikhail's weariness had seeped into it. "It ends here!" He could see the flowing black locks of Lucifer's hair, the crimson red at his side, where Michael's blade had so viciously met purchase. He envisioned Georik, tired, weary, and in pain. 

The sword in his hands started to glow, a luminous, blinding white, and Michael pulled both his arm and wings back, prepared to deliver his final blow with as much force as he could muster. A blow that would sear through Lucifer's flesh. It would burn, sear and eat away at Lucifer's flesh like acid, destroying his own battered human vessel, Georik Zaberisk. With Georik gone, Lucifer's shadow would once again be banished into obscurity, forced to wait for the world to produce a suitable host. But Michael's eyes deceived him, instead of the malevolence that characterized Lucifer, Michael saw Georik. The human looking up at him, and it was not anger or rage that graced his face, it was something Michael could not name. 

_Saddness._

Mikhail's voice rippled through him like water, neither compelling, nor forceful, as it should have been. It was simply there, billowing around him, until the echo of it disappeared. For just a moment, Michael stopped. His pride and anger told him to strike, to punish the betrayer, and to cleanse the world of his unholy temptations, but Mikhail Ramphet's silence sorrow halted the swing of his sword.

In hindsight, Michael could not blame Mephistopheles for taking advantage of his hesitation. He should not have stopped for anything in the world. There was no excuse, and no one to blame, but his own foolish sentiments for a brother and friend who had so brutally betrayed him. Mephistopheles' long claws seared through him, and Michael cried out more in shock than pain. His vision dulled around him, and he felt the shimmering blade slip from his numb fingers. As Mephistopheles pulled his hand away, Michael could feel the wind whirling around him. He was falling. He tried to get his wings to work, to pull him back from whatever fate he was falling into, but they only twitched uselessly, and like some great flightless bird, he plummeted. 

As vision failed him, as his hair shortened, as his wings retracted, as the earth rushed to shatter him into a million pieces, he looked up, and Georik -not Lucifer- looked down on him in shock. Mikhail reached, Georik's name on his lips, and the world went dark to the sound of wind whistling around him. 

\---

Clarity came in the form of a blade, piercing his side. Lucifer hissed in disapproval at the injury, and through the pain, Georik was once again the sole master of his own being. For a few moments, Lucifer retreated, as if anticipating that Michael's next blow would kill him if he stayed, but that it would not kill Georik. Whatever gamble that was, Lucifer seemed the wiser for it. One look at him, and the shimmering, luminescent blade in Michael's arm halted. For just a moment, it was Mikhail in front of him, pain and weariness on his face. And then the moment was gone, as Mephistopheles tore into the Archangel's flesh. 

As Mephistopheles pulled his hand away, Michael fell, his golden hair billowing around him, his wings shuddering as they tried to right him to no avail. The shimmering blade fell from his fingers, as if he no longer had the strength to grip it. His hair shortened, his wings disappeared, and before Georik's eyes, it was no longer Michael, the proud Archangel before him, but his friend, Mikhail falling. Their eyes locked for just a second, and Mikhail's hand reached out towards him, and his friend was gone, smashing down to the earth below. 

"Mikhail!" 

He was to slow, the hand that flew past him too fast for him to grasp. Within a few seconds, Georik was diving after Mikhail, his wings also gone, the horns on his head and body, now only a distant memory. Lucifer retreated at the desperation in Georik's voice, pushed back by the startling burst of emotion that sprung forth, and there was only air between he and Mikhail as they fell. But his friend was falling faster, and Georik could not reach him. 

"Mikhail! Mikhail!" He called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, but his friend remained motionless, his eyes closed, and his face almost looking peaceful despite the hair that violently whipped around it. "Mikhail! Wake up!" 

As if finally hearing him, Georik thought he could see Mikhail's eyes flutter open, but from the distance, it was hard to be sure of it. There was no other indication that Mikhail had woken, and Georik couldn't trust his eyes at the distance the two of them were. "Mikhail!" 

Georik could swear he saw Mikhail's lips move, as if trying to find words that would not come, or that were to quiet to get past the howling wind around them. But then, Mikhail moved, his eyes - and Georik could almost see the green of them - focused on Georik. For a moment as their eyes met, it felt like they were the only people in the world, then with the spell gone, Mikhail let his eyes close, and spread his arms. 

As if by some miracle of God, white wings appeared at Mikhail's back, and his rapid decent slowed enough for Georik to fall into Mikhail's spread arms. Instinctively, Georik wrapped his arms around Mikhail's torso, as Mikhail's arms circled his back. The body in his arms was cold. It was only so close, that Georik could see how haggard Mikhail looked. His pallor was unnatural, a grayness creeping into his normally white complexion. His eyes had lost most of their luster, and his white uniform was now full of grime and blood. Georik wondered how much of that blood was his own, and how much of it was Mikhail's, because Georik could feel his own injury seeping into the white of Mikhail's uniform. It was a lot of blood, and the stains were only growing. 

"Are you alright?" It seemed like a foolish thing to ask. They were plummeting to their deaths, Mikhail was turning grey on him, his green eyes were glassy, it was obvious he was having a hard time focusing, both of them were bleeding heavily, and Mikhail was cold to the touch, and getting colder. They were not alright, in any definition of the word, but it was the first thing that Georik found he could say, his instincts as a doctor taking hold, as he tried to assess Mikhail. It was foolish, but Georik did not regret it. 

Mikhail's eyes had a difficult time focusing, though they lay solely on Georik. They wavered between his shoulders, his hair, his chest, and his face in almost a melancholy fashion, as if they really couldn't find a place to settle. Mikhail had to shut his eyes a few times, before Georik could see any sense of focus in them. Dizziness was the most likely culprit, and his analytical mind listed off all the potential reasons for the side effect. He was having a hard time turning off his instincts, despite the helplessness of their situation. "...Georik...?"

Mikhail's green eyes fluttered closed, and his fingers gripped tighter on the flesh of Georik's back. "It is me." 

In response to the statement, Mikhail laid his head closer to Georik, cheek to cheek, and Georik could barely feel the shallowness of Mikhail's breath, as it tickled his skin, before the fervor of the wind around them erased the sensation. Mikhail seemed to be shivering. "Georik.....is it...done?" 

At any other time, Georik might have teased Mikhail for the emotion in his tone. He hoped he'd have time for it later, but the likelihood of that was slim. A fall from this height would kill both of them. It didn't seem fair for Mikhail to die because of Georik's choices, but that was a very selfish thought. He knew Mikhail had made his own decisions as well, but it still seemed unfair to have Mikhail accompany him on this last leg of his journey. Even still, as the thought came to him, Georik dismissed it. If given the choice, there would be no one else he would prefer. 

"Who knows..." Because that was his best answer. Would this all end for Mikhail with their deaths? Would he be forced to chase down Lucifer once again? Was he destined for such suffering, as to kill someone so intimately close to him for the rest of his life? Mephistopheles would certainly find another host, and Michael's journey of righteous vengeance would likely be played out again and again. Georik didn't know, but his own story was ending, all the suffering, pain and toil, was at its end. He did not expect salvation after his death, he had hurt to many, but he hoped, at least, that pious, honest Mikhail would be granted rest.

"Georik," and the tone was so soft, so pleading that it almost didn't feel like his brash, spirited friend. There had been few times in Georik's life, that he had heard Mikhail sound like this. Each instance burned in his mind, as he etched this final one into his memory. "I have failed...but even now, I am glad... that it is you I am seeing. To have you, here, is more than I could hope for."

"Failure does not suit you." And it did not. Even when Mikhail lost to him, he wore those failures like chains dragging him down. Their incessant need to one up each other had been both a blessing, and a curse. "Any failures, is my own. My fate should never have been your responsibility. Do not fault yourself, for my mistakes." 

Mikhail shook his head, the movement subtle and light, as their cheeks rested together. His green eyes opened, and settled gently on Georik's face. From this close, Georik could almost make out the intricate weave of those green eyes. "Our mistakes, Georik. They are both mine, and yours." Mikhail's voice was getting softer, and Georik found that his friend's breathing was quickly becoming less steady, but Georik was finding breathing to be a challenge as well. 

He was going to say something, his mouth was already poised, when Mikhail smiled at him, and words flowed out of his lips. "Georik, you must never lose again. I can bear these humiliations, if you never lose. I know...how strong you are, so you must not lose, you cannot lose...even if your opponent is the Dark Prince himself, you must not....If you ever lose, I'll have to hunt you down....and put you in your.... place..."

Mikhail's voice was getting softer, or maybe Georik was having a hard time hearing, it was hard to tell, but it sounded like Mikhail was getting farther and farther away. Georik let his eyes close, before opening them again, to confirm that Mikhail was still there in his arms, that he hadn't disappeared. But Georik's vision was starting to blur, the gold of Mikhail's hair mingled with his black, and as his eyes settled on them, it seemed like one of the kaleidoscopes he'd made, the colors swirling and twirling together. "Mikhail?" He couldn't remember what it was Mikhail had just said. Something was telling him it was important, but his mind could not recall what it was. 

Mikhail's hooded eyes closed, and they did not open again. Georik held him close, whispered into Mikhail's cheek, and then the world dissolved into brilliant light.

\---

Georik woke, and did not recognize where he was. It was a bed, a very comfortable bed, so it seemed like a fair assumption that he was not in hell. Distantly, he could hear singing, and it occurred to him that the voice was that of Lillith. Had he been dreaming? The unfamiliar room was strange, and he had not had the pleasure of waking to Lillith's beautiful voice in some time. 

He tried to get out of the bed, but as he tried to move, his body protested, and he groaned, before falling out of the bed all together. At the audible thump he made on the floor, the singing stopped, and he could hear rushed footsteps approaching the closed door. 

"Brother!?" The door swung open, and Lillith, beautiful, sweet, Lillith, in a stunning white dress stood before him. Her eyes held tears and her face was dominated by the radiance in her cheeks, blood pumping through her veins into her face to give it such vibrant color. It had not been a dream, he had restored her. She flew upon him, fussing over his crumpled night clothes, and helping him back into bed and chirping about this and that. He could not have been happier. To see her whole and alive and vibrant as she was, was a true blessing. 

From the doorway, St. Germant emerged. His coat was rumpled, and he looked pale, but the smile on his face was reassuring. "Georik, we are so relieved to have you back with us." 

Lillith looked over at St. Germant, and the radiance on her face brightened, before she set her eyes back onto Georik. "You made us wait you know! Inconsiderate brother, you've been sleeping for a whole week! St. Germant was worried you might not wake, but I told him that you would come around." She smiled up at him, before standing, and straightening out her skirts. She turned to St. Germant. "Now, Brother is likely starving. I'm going to go make some soup for him. Keep him company, and make sure he doesn't nod off on us again before we can fill him with something nutritious." Lillith cooed the order towards St. Germant, and the other man smiled, and nodded his ascent before crossing through the doorway and pulling up a chair to sit but the side of the bed. Smiling to herself, Lillith turned back to Georik. "No passing out before I return. We have much to discuss, and you've missed out on quite a bit of my cooking!" And with that admonishment, his younger sister skipped out of the room, the lively, light air departing with her. 

Georik's eyes lingered in the door way after she'd left, almost hoping that she would duck back in, but she did not. Sure that she would not return until the promised soup was prepared, Georik turned his eyes back onto St. Germant. He looked tired. "You have bad news for me." 

St. Germant's eyes had been angled downwards, but when Georik spoke, his head shot up, as if he was a child caught doing something he shouldn't have been. He looked guilty, and a small, sheepish smile came to his face. "Ah, there will be time for that, later..."

Georik watched as St. Germant angled his gaze downward again, avoiding direct contact. "No, I would rather have it now. What has happened?" 

St. Germant took a deep breath, and the sheepish smile came back to him. "I knew you would say that, but I'd hoped to put this off at least for a little while." He looked back up at Georik, and all smiles were gone. "Mikhail is dead." 

Georik was stunned into silence as St. Germant explained how he had found both of them, badly wounded, in the forests outside of Hardland. He related how Mikhail had woken, just long enough call out his name, and hold his hand, before losing consciousness again, and how within the hour Mikhail had passed away. He mentioned how sure he had been that Georik would also perish, but how his wounds miraculously closed up on their own. About the small funeral they'd held at the church a few days later, attended by the Queen, and the few knights that had survived the assault, and how Georik had slept through it all. 

When St. Germant finished his tale, the only words Georik could find, were to ask for solitude. His friend nodded his ascent, and left the room. With him gone, Georik could hear Lillith singing from the kitchen, and St. Germant's muffled footsteps, as he lingered near the doorway, pacing, then stopping, then pacing some more. 

Never, in all the scenarios he had envisioned, in all the possibilities he could have imagined had Mikhail died alone. In their last moments together, it had seemed inevitable that they would die together, in each other's arms, or that by some miracle of God, Mikhail might survive him. It had never once occurred to him that it would be he who survived. The realization was bitter, and the thoughts would not escape him. He had survived. Mikhail had not. 

He was distantly aware of a conversation taking place outside the door, before the door opened slowly. Franz entered the room, but Georik did not look up to meet him. He was to absorbed in what had come to pass, the impossibility of the situation he found himself in.

"Master Georik, I've brought you some water." Georik snapped his head up. He recognized that voice, and it was not that of St. Germant's loyal servant. Franz stood before him, but it was not Franz. Georik could hear the deep voice as it reverberated in his head, overlapping Franz's even tone. He could see the dark splotches under Franz's eyes, and me knew. 

_Mephistopheles. I see you are alive._ As they often had when there were others present, Georik spoke to Mephistopheles through his mind, but he could not keep the bitterness from his tone.

_Yes, Master Georik._ Franz gave a swift bow, his demeanor nothing like the human Georik knew him to be. _Lillith has carved circles into this room, so as to keep me out. She is not aware that I am here._

Georik's eyes narrowing and his features tightening. _If it is Lillith's wish that you should not be here, then indeed you should not._ Georik could not keep his anger out of the statement, though his physical voice did not portray it. Mephistopheles was a visitor he did not wish to see, and Lillith had been right to go out of her way to exclude him from the premise. _Be gone Mephistopheles!_

The demon hesitated, his posture becoming more fidgety than was becoming. _But- Master Georik!_

_I will not hear it!_ And the sound boomed in his head, every bit as loud as he wanted it to be. He could see Mephistopheles wince in front of him, but it was of little consolation. _I have had enough of you! I am not Lucifer, and I have no intentions of becoming Lucifer every again._

_Master Georik, you-!_ And Mephistopheles paused. Franz's eyes went from troubled, to calculating in record speed. Georik imagined that he was not going to like what he was going to hear. _Thou art affected by Mikhail Ramphet's passing, are thy not?_

Georik could not even have this conversation rationally with his friend St. Gemant. Mephistopheles had no place even speaking Mikhail's name. The injustice that such a loathsome creature still drew breath, while one so worthy no longer could, was something Georik could not handle at that moment. _Leave me Mephistopheles!_ He all but roared the order, his fingers fisting into the sheets of the bed.

_Please, Master Georik, listen! Archangel Michael shall return, should Lucifer also return._ Mephistopheles paused, as if to gauge Georik's reaction. Georik had no idea what the demon could have seen, but he did know that his breath halted, his mind whirled around the possibilities, rationalizing what Mephistopheles had said. As if pleased with what he saw, Mephistopheles continued. _Should thou wish it so, it is within thy power to drag Mikhail Ramphet from Heaven's domain, just as thou was able to drag thy sister from Hell's gates. All thou must do, is to allow Lucifer to once again take shelter in thy soul._

He remembered gripping Lillith, as Mephistopheles pulled her bloodstained body away from him. He had made that choice, and he hadn't regretted it, not even once. Lillith's happiness, her well being, had been his life's work for a long time. They'd moved away from the city for her health, away from friends, and home, and all that they had known, because Lillith had need it. When their parents had died, he had had only her, and she had only him. It had made sense, that he should protect her for the duration of his life, and that she should long outlive him. Now, she had St. Germant, the most kind and dilligent man Georik had ever know. There was no doubt in his mind that his friend would care for his sister, and like a father giving away his daughter, Georik imagined that his life would have to take a different route. Lillith would always be his most precious sister, and the only family he had left, but she was to have a husband now, a man she was to hold higher than he. Where did that leave Georik? His work was one all encompassing answer. Work as a doctor had always been satisfying, but now that Mikhail was gone, that Lillith was starting a new part of her life with St. Germant, where did that leave him? 

_Thou art suffering this loss, but thy does not need to continue suffering it. Just as thou pulled thy precious sister from my grasp, thou can also grasp that of Mikhail Ramphet from the hands of God, if only thou wishes it so._

Georik did not dare look at Mephistopheles. He brought his hand to cover his face, and squeezed his eyes shut. Saving Lillith had been instinctive. Could he do such a thing again? Mikhail would certainly not forgive him for it, as Lillith had. But could Georik live with the thought of never seeing Mikhail again? Could he accept that even after death, he would never be able to rile Mikhail into anger, or be challenged to some senseless duel? Mikhail would enjoy heaven, and all it's comforts, while Georik surely reserved a place within hell's depths. Even the afterlife would not reunite them. Could he accept that? 

" _Leave!_ " Georik bellowed the word, his voice straining with the effort. Within a few moments, St. Germant was in the room, ushering a very confused Franz out the door, apologies following the pair as they left. Mephistopheles had done as Georik had bid, and he knew that the demon would not be back for a time. But that time would be limited. Mephistopheles would return, and the offer would loom above him every time he looked at his sword, every time he felt loneliness tickle his senses and leave him hollow. As Georik allowed himself to settle back into bed, he thought of a world where Mikhail Ramphet no longer existed. What a sad, lonely world he had woken up to find.

**Author's Note:**

> Drag Mikhail Back?  
> Yes  
> No  
> ....... ←


End file.
